Thousand: Three Hundred Fifty-Six

time, all those pages along. It will be much like yesterday. Used to be there weren’t fancy new gadgets every few months. Used to be you’d feed the goat, comb off the moulted tufts of goat hair, spin some yarn from it, weave up a soft shawl from dyed strands. That would nestle, pretty and fresh, around your neck; it would get dirty, be cleaned, dirty up and be cleaned, and holes would wear in it, and you’d be weaving another. People didn’t seem much different. They’d wear out around you and somebody’d be putting together new ones, which, if